Exigency
by Baileys
Summary: Neal's holding a gun on Fowler and Peter enacts his own spin on exigent circumstance. An AU of sorts, tag to season 2's Point Blank.
1. Chapter 1

"Neal, do not do this."

Peter, out of breath and out of time, already knows Neal won't be talked down. Not while his gaze remains, like his gun, fixed on Fowler.

"Look at me." _Kid, please_. "Look at me Neal. Neal, look at me Neal. Come on-"

 _Come on!_ The scene blurs. Freezes. It's just Neal, Peter and a stretch of tarmac between them. De-ja-vu of the worst kind because he remembers this moment too vividly, is all too aware of the time bomb they're sitting on.

The gun wavers, despairing blue eyes drop to the floor then finally, finally rise to meet his. Hope sparks in Peter's chest "…this isn't who you are."

No one in the room is breathing, the warm summer air turned ice cold. So cold Neal breaks. He breaths, a shaky inhale that brings tears with it. Neal's shaking, whole body crumpling, in danger of crashing to the floor. Peter takes the gun from one lax hand. He wants to hug him, hold him down and still for as long as possible, anything to keep him safe, but Neal keeps moving, walking head in hands getting as far away from Fowler as possible. He's angry. Peter gets that, they all are. Angry at Fowler, angry at whoever's pulling the strings in this mess, but right now Peter needs Neal to do the right thing. By the law, not his heart.

"Cuff him." Peter orders Diana, taking what little solace he can get when Neal doesn't fight her.

Diana, looking as worried and sad as Peter feels, secures a compliant Neal. "How are we going to handle this?"

Peter breaths deep, recalling the taste of tainted Armagnac on his tongue. "Call Jones, you two can handle the official bureau response."

Diana hears, looks his way to confirm and receiving a nod of acceptance of his terms Peter moves forward, feeling safe to deal with Fowler and get some god damn answers.

…

Neal's shaking. Head to toe shivers running through his body, increasing in increments the closer they get to their final destination. He's fucked it big this time and he knows it.

They're in the Taurus, Diana had let him sit up front instead of manhandling him into the back seat like the unworthy criminal he was. The gesture would have been comforting if Neal didn't suspect it had little to do with acknowledging his place amongst them this past year and a lot to do with keeping an eye on him. It was a good play on her part, he would have run by now if she'd placed him in the back. Might still run, wasn't discounting the possibility yet. He hasn't had to escape from the FBI lock up before, but is sure it wouldn't pose much of a challenge compared to the supermax.

Of course, escaping the car would be much easier he considers while staring out the window, watching the buildings roll by at a steady, stop-start pace. Not his first in transit tuck and roll. Peter would no doubt yell at him, be especially annoyed if he gets hurt. Neal lets out a quiet chuckle at his delusion that Peter would actually give a damn after this, which causes Diana to give him a sideways look. Neal risks meeting her gaze. She doesn't look disapproving, or angry, but there isn't that soft aura of concern in her eyes that he always see's in Peter's when he's done something utterly stupid.

Dread, shocking and overwhelming suddenly consumes him, sending his eyes wide and breathing shallow. Neal had gotten used to a certain order to his ankleted life. He did something wrong, Peter found out, they'd argue, Peter would punish or yell at him, usually both, then after Peter fixed what he'd broke Neal would apologize and they'd moved on. Neal didn't know when he stopped actually wanting to get away with his crimes, but the cycle was one he'd come to depend on, one that made him feel safe. And it hadn't happened this time.

Fear tightened Neal's chest. The strength of its grip crushing his resolve to keep it together. Neal recognized this feeling. He'd experienced it many times before, over and over when the con went too long, or the price on his head got too much. The good things in his life being slowly ripped away, too fast becoming a distant memory. Each time ended the same, with a solitary packed bag and sense of nostalgic longing for how things used to be.

Cuffed hands clasped tight in his lap, fighting back the surge of emotion rising from his stomach Neal focuses on the feel of cool metal encircling his wrists. The feeling of familiarity and security they offer. With each too quick inhalation followed with an equally hasty exhalation, sounding suspiciously sniffle like, Neal closes his eyes and concentrates on forcing calm into his veins.

Panic seeps in instead. Focusing on the cuffs isn't working. Not like it should, like it has times before. Neal shudders, leaning forward with hunched shoulders sinking lower into the passenger seat, eyelids squeezed tight to stop the thoughts swirling through the deep dark blackness of his mind from escaping…

But one particularly persistent thought battles through, breaking down all his internal barriers and explodes -

 _The cuffs aren't comforting him like they usually do because Peter's hands hadn't been the ones to put them there._

Diana was not Peter and it didn't matter how gentle she'd been escorting him down the stairs of the gallery or out to the car. Peter handed him over. Left him vulnerable to the control of others. Others less invested in his welfare. Skin tingling, the sense memory of electricity entering his body, reducing him to tears and leaving him inert. He wants to deny it, but Peter had done something Neal hoped he'd never do, had fought long and hard for years with phone calls, birthday cards and teasing clues to make sure didn't happen.

Peter had abandoned him.

And Neal had made him do it. He _needed_ to run.

"Don't even think it Caffrey." Diana drawls without breaking eye contact with the traffic up ahead.

Instead of denying the accusation Neal sinks even lower, head bent, almost kissing the dash. His chest is on fire, mind swimming. Neal swallows convulsively to prevent being sick, but it doesn't quell the nausea one bit. Two more blocks and they'll be there. Best time to make his move will be when she makes the final turn. Diana may be throwing him off balance with her twisted reverse psychology, but one thing is certain - he can't go back to prison. He can't. Not after Peter. It would be like a hungry person having to dig through bins after a lifetime of gourmet food and fine wines.

Next block. They'll be turning soon, slowing at the lights. Diana won't be expecting him to leap from a moving car. The streets are busy enough, he'd only need to clear the corner to get away. Neal has disappeared before. He can do it again. And again. As often as needed until he forgets, forgets all about White Collar, about Diana, about Jones, he chokes up at the thought of forgetting June… Elle, even Satchmo, P- he cuts himself off from thinking anymore. Blinking away the tears burning his eyes.

Bracing himself, trying to calm the shakes enough to ensure he doesn't miss his mark, Neal eyes Diana. Her focus is on the road. He reaches for the handle-

Diana doesn't slow, doesn't take the corner. She doesn't even blink. Neal can't keep the fear and the worry and confusion off his face, watching the buildings wiz by until they're out of view and far behind them. Thrown as to where Diana could be taking him, Neal doesn't realise his breathing has turned quick and shallow again, the shaking which had never gone away increasing tenfold. Diana looks at him, the first time since missing their turn. He stares back at her, mouth working but no words passing his lips.

"Relax. I'm not going to shoot you. Or break any bones." She turns, eyes back on the road adding _'as much as I'd like to'_ under her breath.

 _Leaving that to Peter,_ Neal thinks. Thoughts of Peter bring fresh tears and a reminder of what started this mental collapse. He'd held a gun. On another person. He was going to shoot. Only time he's _chosen_ to hold a gun since he turned 18. _What the hell had he done?_

 _Look at me Neal._

Neal clenches his fists, the cuffs tightening, cutting into his skin.

 _Neal. Look at me._

The Peter in his mind tells him to look, but Neal doesn't want to. He wants to stay in the darkness, the all-consuming darkness where no one can find him. He's tired of being alone, but he doesn't want to be found. Not by anyone. He can't deal with it. He doesn't care anymore, all he knows is he has to get away. He has to run, run as fast and as far as he can because alone in the dark is better than being alone in the light. The light where the truth can be seen, where everyone can see him and chose not to want him, chose to leave him. Neal's scared of the light.

"We're here."

Neal snaps his eyes open, jerking forward with the car when it comes to a sudden halt. Panic takes over, the disconcerting feeling of being one place one minute and another the next being more than Neal can handle right now. He can hear himself breathing again, that ragged snuffle of congested tears blocking his sinuses. Turning away from Diana who's sitting silently staring and unmoving in the driver's seat, Neal fixes his gaze out the window. The familiar skyscrapers are gone, light blue sky from earlier faded to a muted grey. A storm closing in or maybe just the late hour, he can't tell and doesn't care.

"Caffrey?"

He blinks, sniffs and wipes his eyes, ignoring the dampness against his palm. _What was he doing?_ Oh yeah, _running_. Only Diana's now standing by his door, blocking his escape. Which means nothing if they're already through the prison gates. And they have to be. Where else would she have taken him if not the FBI? Peter said to take him back to the office, but Diana has her own mind and would certainly be justified in making her own judgement. He'd missed his opportunity.

Looking up and out Neal's agile mind plays through every possible scenario, already plotting, never stopping. Until his eyes see something they shouldn't-

 _Elizabeth._

His whole body jolts, unable to move for fear the image before him will shatter and leave him, figuratively and literally, out in the cold. She's standing not at the gates of the supermax, but on the top step of their home in Brooklyn. Arms folded to stave off the cold, looking at him with nothing but worry and concern in her calming blue eyes.

Stunned into compliance, Neal lets Diana pull him out of the car, one hand taking his arm, the other resting encouragingly at his back. He walks unsteadily toward the all too familiar house he never expected to visit again. Rain, fat drops of cold liquid, hit his face in slow and methodical succession. Elizabeth takes his free arm the second he's within reach, and together both women accept him into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

There's a noise outside. An Engine turning off. Seconds later the front door opens and Neal can't help but look up.

 _Peter._

Neal swallows, turns away quickly, doesn't want to let on that he's noticed him. Doesn't want them to see him so confused. How long has he been sat here? Waiting quietly on the Burke's couch. Elizabeth's been hovering, every so often running her hand through his hair and asking if he's _okay_ _sweetie?_ He hadn't noticed before, but he's never heard her call anyone else Peter works with _sweetie_ or _sweetheart_ or any other sugary moniker. What that means he's too wrung out, too tired, to think about. He's too worried about what's going on and why he's sitting on a nice couch, in a nice house, instead of a hard bench in a five by eight holding cell.

Peter and Diana talk quietly by the still open front door, throwing interchangeable looks in his direction. He can't hear what they say, but it takes less than a minute for them to come to an agreement. Peter pointing to his side arm, Diana nodding. Then they part. Diana casting him one long, loaded look, before exiting into the forceful spring shower cleansing the murky world outside.

Was Peter going to shoot him? Was that Diana saying good bye and good riddance? Peter can't shoot him here, Elizabeth would be upset if his blood got all over her couch. Neal shakes his head, eyes back on the floor. Peter wouldn't shoot him, wouldn't even joke about it. Peter doesn't know why he doesn't like guns, but Peter knows they scare him and that's enough. Peter may shout at him sometimes, get angry and threaten to send him back to prison, but he's never scared him, not on purpose.

Neal blinks away what he knows are tears - no taser required this time - to find Peter standing mere feet away, looking down at him with a sad long look. A last look. He huffs a sigh, steps closer, hands going to his hips. Neal sends his gaze to the floor, feels vibrations run through muscle, chest tightening. He only just now notices his left leg bouncing up and down in an uncontrollable motion, unable to be still, to calm down.

He's shaking apart.

He can't stay sitting any longer.

The urge to run is back. Fight or flight. He's never been a fighter. He can't stay. Can't...

Neal's up and off the couch before he can think. Strong arms grab his out of nowhere and the sudden opposing force applied to his forward momentum causes him to snap back like an elastic band, sending him crashing into the body behind, knocking them both off balance. Neal lands back on the couch where he started, only this time restrained. He tries to break free, but the arms detaining him tighten, matching him move for move while a soothing voice in his ear orders him to calm down and _just breathe_. Turned around in the chaos, head now trapped between a rough palm and solid shoulder, Neal gives up the fight and instead concentrates on the strong but steady heartbeat he feels thumping beneath his cheek. Feeling the rise and fall of his friend's chest against his own, he tries to copy it.

Giving in completely Neal grips fists full of the Brooks Brothers suit jacket and with one shuddering breath, closing his eyes slowly decides to hell with it. He lets the tears fall.

...

Peter enters his home feeling the weight of the day resting heavily upon him. Shaking off his soaking coat, eyeing Neal sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, hands clasped in his lap, wrists held together by invisible cuffs he greets Diana standing silent sentry by his stairs. She's guarding the door out of impulse rather than necessity he feels, but doesn't say anything.

"Everything go alright?" he whispers.

Diana pointedly looks over at Neal, shirt untucked, hair disheveled, looking as sorry a sight as Peter's ever seen him, even worse than the second time he caught him, sad and lonely in his empty apartment, before beckoning him closer. "He's been... quiet."

Peter pensively studies the subdued kid in question, releasing a long pent up sigh. "Okay," he resolves, refocusing on Diana, "Fowler's in detention. Let him stew, I want a full confession when you and Jones talk to him."

"Got it boss." Diana nods, voice firm and trusting. "What happens with Caffrey?"

"I've filled in Hughes, he's letting me handle it," Peter pins her with a concentrated glare.

Diana gives one of her own right back. Allowing a smirk at their shorthand Peter taps his gun and a not quite a smile reaches her eyes, the warmth in them saying _I hope you know what you're doing_. He hopes he knows what he's doing too. They nod and part, Diana walking out the door into the rain, leaving a still damp Peter behind watching Neal.

The door closes. Neal seems to sense the change and the attention, and catches his eye. He doesn't look surprise to see him, but he does look frightened, and again Peter's hit with that familiar physical ache in his stomach, mouth like the Sahara. Why the hell does he care so much about this kid? He's not even in danger right now, yet Peter still feels the same as if he were. He's starting to understand his own Dad a little better, why he lectured him every time he left the house. The worry and fear of what could happen, what Neal could get up to when out of his sight was never ending.

Stepping forward, ready to bite the bullet and give Neal his own version of that lecture - the one he's been wanting to give since this thing started - Peter doesn't even get both hands to his hips before Neal's up and running in a spurt of adrenaline. Not making it more than a few feet before falling, quite spectacularly, into his arms.

Peter hadn't meant to grab Neal so aggressively, but instinct kicked in. Neal knew how to run. He was good at it. And Peter knew, has always known despite his good-natured teasing, if Neal ever did run from him for real chances were Peter wouldn't ever find him again. Not if he didn't want to be found.

Neal slams back into him, and Peter flashes back to a similar scene, one with fire and burning ashes floating to the ground, a moment that precipitated all which has come between them since. The force spins them around. Neal facing the door and Peter's calves hitting the couch, but he isn't prepared for just how weak the kid is and unable to regain his balance with the burden in his arms, Peter stumbles, dropping backwards onto the cushions, taking Neal with him.

The second they hit the sofa Neal pushes and pulls, fighting to get away. But the attempts are feeble at best, limbs like jelly they lack coordination and Peter easily subdues him. Restraining with both arms wrapped around him, a hand in his hair and other on his back. Peter tucks Neal's head beneath his chin, holding him tight against his chest.

"Calm down Neal, just breath okay, just breath." Peter takes his own advice and while gently rocking back and forth slows his own breathing, steadying his frantically beating heart.

Neal's breaths are hot against his neck, shallow and shaky much like the rest of him, but he stops fighting and goes quiet. Neal's arms shift from being a barrier between them to wrap around Peter's waist, gripping his jacket. This isn't the first time Peter's found himself comforting an upset Neal Caffrey, but the kid holding on to him like he's the only thing keeping him in this world? That's definitely new. Though not entirely uncomfortable Peter realises, tightening the hug ever so slightly when he feels the damp patch forming on shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the sadness and utter despair of the situation Peter is _glad_ Neal is 'not okay'. If he was then he isn't the Neal Caffrey, Peter - and god help him in this – is coming to love. Family's such a fickle thing, boiling down to shared DNA and a shared obligation to one another. They didn't have the DNA. So that left obligation. Neal being this upset meant there was still hope, hope he hadn't crossed the line from nonviolent con-artist into hardened criminal, the kind four years in a supermax can make of people. Hope he's still just a stupidly romantic kid who had idealizations of how his world should be and can't accept the reality of how its turned out.

Since their game of chase began eight years ago Peter knew there was something different about Neal. It was only after working side by side with him, watching him swing from obliging to withholding, narcissistic to self-depreciating, empathic to sociopathic nightmare in the blink of an eye that Peter finally worked out what that difference was. Peter concluded Neal was forever stuck in that awkward teenager stage of growing up, where emotions were inconsistent, actions impulsive and each day brought a new perspective and different alliances. It's why more often than not _Agent Burke_ is left at the office and _Peter_ is the one to set things straight from the safety of his sofa. But it's rare moments like this, when the selfish impulsive behaviour actually registers with that Peter gets to show his softer side and tries to simply weather the storm together.

While contemplating his next move Neal's grip loosens on his jacket, the weight leaning against him getting heavier. Peter calls for Elizabeth who he knows will be hovering nearby and with a little help, manages to remove both shoes and settle Neal's feet on the couch so he's lying comfortably without waking him.

"What else can I do?" She asks, completely casual, like this sort of thing happens every day.

Peter looks down at Neal still sleeping soundly against him and rests his chin in the unruly brown hair. "Sit," he taps the free space on his other side, "and pass me the remote."

Elizabeth eyes her husband speculatively as he draws Neal closer, arranging limbs so they rest comfortably around the lax body, holding him in place. Eyebrows drawing together she studies the pair and is surprised to discover Peter _is_ comfortable. And it hits her. He's not freaking out, making excuses to leave or being insensitive. All the things Elle's seen him do when one of her friends have been distressed or upset or crying in his presence. It makes her wonder exactly what it is that Neal Caffrey exudes that can turn naturally suppressive alpha-males into self-assured, emotionally demonstrative beings and can she bottle it? _She'd make a goddamn fortune!_

Watching the man she loves with the young man they'd somehow _both_ become responsible for, there's a twinkle in his eyes that Elle trusts. With no 'cowboy up' being dished out tonight it just proves what she's always suspected. Peter's had a soft spot for Neal Caffrey since the very beginning. What he saw in that first file, which made it from his desk to their home she may never know, but Elle is sure that it wasn't just the desire to do right by the law that had her husband dedicating years of their marriage to catching the boy – _and really, how could she see as him anything else right now?_ \- now fast asleep on top of him.

Relishing in the wonder of fate Elizabeth abandons the coffees already poured in the kitchen and fetches them both a beer. Neal is quiet, only the occasional sniffle and quiet hiccupping breath emitting from him in his sleep. The damp patch on Peter's shirt is slowly drying and she can see his eyes are no longer squeezed tightly shut. Neal looks relaxed for the first time since Diana brought him home.

Elle hands Peter one of the beers and the TV remote before sitting down, leaning into her husband who, keeping one arm secured around Neal, donates the other to her. Despite the admittedly squashed conditions Peter happily watches the game while Elle sips her own beer, and Neal sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

His face is puffy and raw when he wakes. Opening his eyes fully even proves a challenge. His lids feel tight and crusted over. He can't recall why. Considers he might be sick, but nixes that idea when he finds no other evidence in the rest of his body. He's not quite lying down, the pillow beneath his head is solid and warm. Not uncomfortable, but definitely not from his bed at June's. There are voices nearby, talking about him not to him he thinks when he hears his name, which induces a healthy dose of paranoia. Sniffling, Neal wipes a hand over his eyes to remove whatever's sealing them shut and prepares to judge the mood of the room.

"Hey," Peter greets him softly, his smile as solemn as his greeting.

Neal doesn't know how to respond, other than offering a very muted _hey_ right back. They're almost nose to nose, Peter looking down on him, the angle strange and disconcerting. Further probing reveals why. Flexing his hand, long slender fingers run across a cotton blend, grazing tiny buttons. It's takes far too long for his brain to catch up and realise it's a shirt his face is resting against. Not just any shirt either. Peter's shirt. The same one he'd been wearing earlier-

Neal slams his eyes shut, face scrunching trying to rid himself of the image of Peter walking towards him, going for his gun. Peter wasn't going to shoot him. Peter wouldn't-

 _Bang!_

But Neal's imagination isn't satisfied with that reassurance. Insists on playing out a make-believe scenario in his mind. Only in his mind Neal has a gun too, and it's pointed at Peter.

 _Bang! Bang!_

Neal rears back, pushing away from Peter with both palms, the force tipping him off balance and slipping from the cushion, sending him crashing to the floor. Peter catches him under the arms, softening the blow before his butt hits the hardwood with a thump. Breathing fast, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears Neal can't get enough words out to even pretend to Peter he's fine. Someone else quickly arrives, talking to him, talking to Peter. She's telling him to put his head down. Peter's doing it for him before he has a chance to comply, one warm hand fitting the back of his head to his drawn up knees, while the other rubs firmly up and down his spine.

Fowler, the music box, the gun, all flash through his mind. This was going from bad to worse to disaster in seconds.

"Hon get him a water?" Peter's calm disembodied voices calls somewhere overhead.

Neal hears delicate footsteps cross the wooden floor. _Elizabeth standing on her doorstep, pulling him into the house.._.

"I'm not in prison." Neal, voice raw and choked, manages to get the words out in one hasty breath.

"No kid, you're not in prison." Peter's voice remains soft and reassuring.

Water appears, Neal takes the glass in both hands to keep it steady, lifts his head up and with some help drinks. He holds the glass to his lips long after sipping to avoid making eye contact with the two other adults in the room. The heat of humiliation rising on his cheeks.

He's not in prison, but he should be, he thinks over, and over, and over again.

Perched on the edge of the sofa, hand squeezing still tense shoulders Peter sighs heavily, needing the physical release, and looks at Elle over Neal's bent head with sorrowful eyes. Hers crinkle in that way which conveys sympathy and mouthing a chaste kiss she leaves, heading once again for the privacy of the kitchen. Once his wife is out of sight and no longer an easy distraction Peter reaches out and ever so slowly takes the water glass, prying Neal's fingers away upon meeting mild resistance. Neal already looks appropriately chastised, which makes what he's about to say very hard.

"You messed up." Peter throws the words out in one breath.

Neal's head drops further, if that's even possible, but Peter's not ready for him to avoid this. A telling off is going to happen now. Regardless of emotional state.

"Look at me Neal." Peter roughly mushes the matted curls with one hand.

Neal gets the message and biting his bottom lip, looks up. Meeting Peter's gaze is hard, but he owes him at least that much. Neal can feel tightness on his cheeks, knows it from tears. Wants nothing more than to go freshen up, pull himself together, but can see he isn't going anywhere anytime soon. With a trial for attempted murder sure to be coming up, his four years for forgery seems a sweet deal in comparison, and if Peter intends to send him back to prison he really wants to get this over with. Dragging goodbyes out isn't good for anyone, Neal learnt that lesson long ago.

"Peter-"

"Shut up," Peter raises his finger, points it right at him. "I'm talking, your listening."

Neal snaps his mouth shut. Feels fresh tears swimming to the surface and quickly turns away. _Hasn't he cried himself dry already? What the hell is wrong with him?_ A cool hand cupping his warm cheek has Neal refocusing and, inhaling deeply, forces himself to pull it together enough to listen.

 _Unacceptable, stupid, immature._ Neal hears the key words. Nods along, gaze once again dropping closer to the floor with each verbal blow. He can't disagree. Then the words _frightened, scared_ and… _change_.

"Change?"

"Things will change." Peter repeats, "I can't allow you to do this to yourself, your life matters Neal. You matter to me. And to El, Mozzie, June… You're not going back to June's-"

And there's the final hit. Confirmation. He was going to prison.

"- not until I know you're thinking straight. You'll stay here. There'll be a strict curfew. No uninvited guests. You'll come and go to work with me and nowhere else."

Neal didn't take anything in after _stay here_ … "Here?"

"Here." Peter affirms.

Neal's head had started to drop before he mentioned change, and Peter had wondered if he was pushing too hard too soon, but he needed to strike while Neal was still feeling pitiful, before that brilliant mind clicked into gear and he convinced himself what he'd done was justified. Then halfway through the list of new rules Neal's eyes, wide and hopeful, snapped back to his. Uttering one word like it was the answer to all their problems, _here?_ It made Peter wonder if Neal had heard anything thereafter.

Thankfully the response when asked if he understood was _Yes Peter,_ punctuated with a wide Caffrey smile. It was a little on the watery side and given the red nose, puffy eyes and tear streaked cheeks it didn't carry the same weight it usually did, but the very sight was heartening.

"Why am I not going to prison?" Neal asks plainly, blue eyes fixed on Peter's ready to spot the lie.

Peter looks to the ceiling for inspiration, but on returning to lock eyes with the kid it wasn't hard to be honest, what with him still sitting on the floor, knees to his chest and giving the appearance butter wouldn't melt.

"Because I don't want to put you back there ever again. Not if I can help it."

Peter thinks he was more comfortable with Caffrey crying and falling asleep on top of him than he was right now. Trying to work out what the hell the other man was thinking was a challenge every day of the week, but the intense scrutiny Neal was putting him under right now made Peter feel like he should be the one on the receiving end of a lecture.

"Thank you." Neal speaks eventually, breaking the awkward silence.

Peter smiles, reaches over and squeezes the kid's knee. "You heard what I said about curfew and guests right?"

"Peter I don't care, I'll do whatever you ask. I don't, I can't be that person. I – I d-don't like guns." Neal feels the shaking return. He thought he'd jumped that hurdle but obviously wasn't immune to a relapse.

Peter moves the hand from his knee, transferring it to his hair, squeezing his neck before slipping to his furthest shoulder and pulling him close. "It's okay, you're okay."

Neal drops his head until he's resting against Peter's thigh. He knows he should feel self-conscious, but Neal feels the knot in his stomach loosen and after a matter of seconds the shaking reduces to small shivers. What he feels now is something he's becoming used to when Peter's around, something he knows has been fleeting throughout most of his life.

It's been a very long day. So, when Peter's warm hand smooths his hair back and tells him again that it's going to be okay, Neal realises he doesn't have any reason not to believe him. Neal closes and for the first time in the weeks since that day on the tarmac he doesn't dream of burning ashes falling from the sky.


End file.
